


Traditions

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Grell Is a Troll, M/M, Romance Novel, Shinigami Scribblings, Valentine's Day, spinning rack, what is this even
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:31:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1207846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Shinigami Scribblings prompt "Valentine's Day." Hilarious misunderstandings and stockings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traditions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [somebodyslight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somebodyslight/gifts).



> [This fic is based completely on somebodyslight's Valentine's Day theme and Eric and Alan wearing bondage gear. Yeah, you heard right. Which is why you need to click this link.](http://shinigamiscribblings.tumblr.com/post/76765609301/valentines-day-theme-by-somebodyslight-another)

“What’s _that,_ then?”

Alan nearly jumps out of his skin and almost slams his finger in his desk drawer as he hears Eric’s voice.

He’d just been reaching for a new pen, deep in thought about the complex report he was filling out—a rogue angel having interrupted a reap a few weeks back—and slid his drawer open without thinking. Inconveniently, Eric happened to be standing behind him at just that moment.

“Nothing!” Alan practically squeaks, staring in horror at the toe of a sheer black stocking caught in the closed drawer. He swivels around in his chair to look up at Eric and slides in front of it, smiling awkwardly. 

Eric shifts his stance and crosses his arms, giving a wink and a smile. “I figured you’d have a nice bit on the burner for today.”

Alan laughs nervously. “Right, uh, it’s a... gift. Sort of.”

Eric shakes his head as if he’s dealing with a naughty lad’s lad.

“Grell helped choose it,” Alan adds, as if that makes more sense. 

Eric immediately raises a skeptical eyebrow. “I’m surprised it’s not red.”

“Grell said that only one lady in the Division can wear red.”

“I see,” Eric says expectantly. “Well, let’s see it, then. I’m more qualified to tell you if they’ll like it, whoever they are.”

“No, no, that’s fine!” Alan replies quickly, shaking his head. “So what’s up? What did you need? A pen? A pencil? Lunch? Yes! Let’s go to lunch!” Eric is just staring as Alan babbles, and then jumps up. “I’m ravenous and let’sgoIhearthecanteenisserving— ” Eric is also still casting curious looks at the drawer, much to Alan’s dismay, “—Eric let’s go _now._ ”

Eric is startled out of his reverie and shifts his attention back to Alan, who is sure at this point, he must look like he reaped someone not on the To Die List.

Finally, Eric turns away and nods; food is always a good deterrent to distract him.

= = =

There are a lot of “traditions” at the London division that Alan thought were strange at first.

There’s the raucous Christmas party, which never ends well; the Halloween antics which are a particular favorite amongst staff due to the copious amounts of ironic skull decor that shows up in the living world; and any other human holiday that can possibly be invented.

Normally, the one who keeps Alan up to date on such traditions is Grell. Alan is relatively sure it’s because Grell finds watching him try to keep up to be a hilarious pastime, and usually, these traditions and holidays end with Alan doing something embarrassing. He can never blame Grell, because it’s his own fault, but something always happens.

Last year at the Christmas party, he’d had a bit too much “spiced” punch and kissed a rather good-looking chap from Spectacles in front of all of his colleagues after Grell had pointed out some mistletoe. 

Then, there was the Halloween incident, where Grell insisted that the entire staff dressed up in elaborate costumes. Alan had shown up to work dressed—very subtly, he thought—as a vampire. 

William had sent him straight to Administrative, where he’d received a thorough lecture on the bigoted implications of dressing up as a supernatural being outside of his own kind, and had been served with a formal warning for cultural insensitivity.

Alan is slowly starting to suspect that some of these traditions may be ones that only Grell has chosen to continue, but he’s still not confident enough in his role as a junior reaper to make the call. He’s already different enough, so he decided some time ago to just bear it for a few years.

The latest is Valentine’s Day, which Grell insists is the day that there are two options for Dispatch staff. One is to have a date, which most Reapers have. The other is to play a prank—Grell swears on a favorite corset that it’s the complete truth— _and_ so Alan has ended up with...

“What are you thinking about so hard? The biscuits can’t be _that_ stale.”

Eric is staring at him, and Alan swallows hard as he offers up a wan smile.

 _And so,_ Alan has ended up with... a desk drawer of black sheer stockings with matching garters, lacy black underwear, and a sheer camisole. Which he is, according to Grell, supposed to show up in at the end of the day to Eric’s office as the aforementioned prank.

Grell has told Alan many times that this is perfect acceptable, and that lots of Eric’s juniors have done outrageous things in the past—shown up in drag, performed a lap dance, and most memorably, managed to write a sonnet using rude metaphors.

Alan, although eager to fit in, has at least developed a healthy bit of skepticism.

“What are you doing later, then?” he asks Eric, trying to sound conversational.

“Not sure,” Eric shrugs a bit.

“Not expecting any... laughs?”

Eric looks up at him, tilting his head curiously as he takes a sip from his flask.

“I hear Valentine’s Day is meant to be... a ‘laugh,’” Alan tries again, adjusting his tie and fidgeting uncomfortably.

“ _Oh,_ ” Eric exclaims, as if suddenly understanding. “Well, Grell always comes up with _something_. It’s a bit of a tradition!”

There it was: the word “tradition.” Well, all right, then. Grell was right.

Alan laughs a little, the worry melting away. “Right, then,” he replies, smiling. “Excellent.” 

Eric is distracted by a solitary tomato on Alan’s plate, and Alan snorts.

“Yes,” he says simply, and Eric spears the tomato and drops it onto his own plate. Alan doesn’t even like tomatoes, but Eric loves them.

“Red, for Valentine’s Day,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“What are you doing, then?” Eric asks, reversing the question. “I assume you’ve someone special lined up with that...” Eric starts to laugh again, “... _getup_ in your desk.”

“It’s not a ‘getup,’” Alan says, defending himself as he starts to blush. “It was... a suggestion. I thought... well, I think it will... get the right response.”

Eric shoots him a look, and suddenly, Alan finds himself pinned by Eric’s eyes. He searches Alan’s face, and Alan looks down self-consciously.

“What?” he asks in embarrassment. “Do I have something on my face?”

“Just that nervous look,” Eric retorts, laughing a bit, but he doesn’t elaborate as he looks away.

“I like Valentine’s Day,” Alan says after a few moments of silence. “The flowers are nice.”

Eric offers up an appreciative smile, and Alan feels something immediately warm flare in his chest. Eric doesn’t love flowers—he’s allergic to most of them, in fact—but he knows Alan does, and seems to have adopted it as an endearing quirk.

“I’d ask you the meanings, but I’m afraid we’ve got to get on to our next reaps.”

Eric is right; there’s only three working hours left in the day. For that reason, Alan swallows hard as he follows Eric to check out their scythes.

To take his mind off his own nervousness, he offers, “Well, it’s relatively simple. Red roses mean love, but everyone knows that, of course.”

“A declaration of love is a bit over the top for just a day,” Eric remarks as he signs a form and winks at the General Affairs staff member attending to them. “Maybe suiting that flowers die quickly.”

The words strike Alan as unexpectedly sad, but he tries not to think too much about it.

“Well,” Alan replies, reaching for his slasher, “it’s just a day, after all.”

“Suppose so,” Eric agrees. “I’ve never been one for traditions, anyway.”

= = =

“Now, my _darling,_ ” Grell croons as he meets Alan in the changing rooms at precisely six p.m. “Do you know how to assemble this attire?”

Alan has his hand inside one stocking with the garter stretched around one of his wrists, and he’s nearly cross-eyed with confusion of how to hook it together.

“Bloody hell, you wouldn’t last a single moment with those Spectacles lads. They’ve only the finest taste in lingerie for ladies and gentlemen, and see the value in dressing oneself in both.”

Alan bites his lip and scowls.

He’s mostly dressed, already wearing the underwear and sheer camisole, and he can’t even bear to look at himself in the mirror for fear he’ll spontaneously combust from a blush.

Grell rolls his eyes—he’s actually wearing a rather complex red ensemble that leaves little to the imagination, and just looking at the shoes hurts Alan’s feet with sympathy pains. Alan is outfitted in short order, with some rather undignified pulling and fastening, with Alan laid out on his back at one point and bending over in ways that certainly aren’t befitting to a grim reaper. 

“ _There!_ ” Grell crows. “Absolutely stunning!”

Alan finally looks at himself, and sets his jaw.

“And you’re sure Eric... will laugh?”

“Oh, darling, _everyone_ is doing it. I’m sure there isn’t a junior here who isn’t dressed up in ladies garments right this moment. You wouldn’t want dear Mr. Slingby to feel left out, now would you?”

Alan frowns. “No.”

“Excellent. It’s all for a laugh, my dear. Now, take this coat and try not to be seen on your way to his office.”

Alan wraps the rather ostentatious, full length winter coat around himself. He’d at least refused the stiletto-heeled boots Grell had tried to pass off on him, for fear of breaking a toe. 

At least from the ankles down, he looked respectable.

He leaves Grell with an uncertain nod, and makes his way back to his desk in the pit to stash away his normal clothes.

“Humphries!” shouts one of his fellow juniors, and he freezes, dropping to sit in his chair and thanking the creator he’d buttoned the jacket all the way to the neck. “Oi, is it that cold in here?” asks his colleague curiously, taking a few steps forward, obviously on his way out.

Alan laughs nervously. “Just a bit... nippy. On my way out, anyway.”

“Are you coming to the pub? There’s sure to be a fit bunch of staff there—Spectacles and General, whatever suits your fancy.”

Alan just stares at him.

“You’re not... you’re not going to give your mentor a laugh?”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll have a laugh, but... well, can’t waste time! See you in a bit.”

The other junior disappears out the door, and suddenly, Alan realizes he’s completely alone in the office. There are no other juniors in the pit, and there’s barely a soul stirring.

Bugger.

He’s suddenly not sure what to do; although since he’s come this far, maybe he shouldn’t panic based on the word of a single junior. Although Grell has been a bit... over the top with these so-called “traditions,” they’ve never been _completely_ wrong. Mostly.

_Bugger._

Well, the worst that could happen is Alan surprises Eric in a way he’d never live down. However, he’s relatively sure that if he blamed the entire thing on Grell, there’d be no hard feelings.

Right. Well... he said he’d try to fit in with the London staff. He’s always been a bit odd, and even though he was well-liked in Birmingham, he was still a bit of an outcast with his love for “off-season” flowers. 

Alan takes a breath and stands up, cautiously looking around. No one is about at all, and Eric’s light is on in his office.

He crosses the office slowly, takes the final step to stand in front of Eric’s door, and after a few moments of hesitation, knocks.

“Come _in,_ ” calls a very inviting, eager voice.

Alan raises his eyebrows; it sounds unlike Eric, though it definitely is Eric.

Alan opens the door quickly—his eyes shut since he can’t help it—and throws it shut behind him as he drops the coat on the floor. He keeps his eyes screwed shut in mortification as he blurts out, “Happy Valentine’s Day it’s a joke Grell told me to do it and you’re supposed to laugh and—”

“Alan?”

Alan opens his eyes; even he’s not expecting what he sees.

Eric is sitting at his desk, and he’s wearing what appears to be a rather elaborate harness made of leather. It has a number of straps, and stretches across Eric’s shoulders and ribs in a rather... tantalizing way.

Alan knows very well that the thing he _should_ be doing is gathering up the coat and running out the door as fast as he can, given how surprised Eric looks and the state of undress he’s in.

Instead, all he can do is stare at Eric’s chest and what he’s wearing, and Alan is suddenly reminded he’s wearing lacy underwear that aren’t designed for...

Well, yes.

Plan B it is.

“Grell told me to,” he finally blurts out dumbly.

Eric raises an eyebrow, and shift uncomfortably in his chair. “I was...” Eric falters. “Well, you see, Grell has good taste. And said... that there would be someone who would come and...”

They just stare at each other.

“You were waiting for me?” Alan finally asks slowly.

Eric balks. “I wasn’t waiting for you! I was... waiting for... _someone_ ,” he insists. “I wouldn’t ever make you... or think... I...” 

Eric has just stuttered for the first time since Alan met him.

“Of course not!” Alan agrees immediately. “It’s just a misunderstanding, and...”

Alan is shocked to realize that Eric is actually blushing, and that is because Eric is currently staring at Alan’s legs and trying very hard not to.

“I mean, you look... well, it...” Eric blurts out, “It’s fine. Grell has good taste.”

“Grell has good taste?”

Eric clamps his mouth shut.

They stare at each other, wide-eyed, until finally, Alan puts both hands over his face and groans. He can’t help it as he starts to laugh, somewhat hysterically, but still laughter.

And to his relief, Eric starts to laugh, until they’re both laughing together.

“How long did it take you to get this on?” he asks, finally crossing the barrier of Eric’s desk to take a closer look. It’s suddenly all very funny, since Eric’s laughing, too.

“I like a bit of this kind of thing,” Eric admits, rubbing the back of his head, still grinning, “but Grell had to help with this one.” There’s a series of rather elaborate buckles up the back. “It’s designed to not be able to get out of without help.”

He turns slightly so Alan can look at the back.

“Are you wearing... leather trousers?”

“It was part of the outfit.”

“I see,” Alan starts to laugh so hard, his eyes are tearing. It might be a touch of hysteria and nervousness, but it’s a relief to just get it out. He slips a finger under one of the garters he’s wearing and shakes his head sadly, slowly calming. It’s ludicrous now, since Eric is still sitting, and his face is rather close to Alan’s very bare, _gartered_ thigh.

“I had to lie down and Grell had to actually pull these on,” he admits.

Eric looks up at him, grinning, and meets his eyes.

They both give small, subtly amused snorts, and Alan turns away. He changes his mind quickly, though, and spins back around to face Eric, given that his ass is literally on view, opting to retreat that way instead.

He tries not to notice that Eric is staring unabashedly at his legs again, before wrenching his gaze away with an embarrassed expression.

“Who are the flowers for?” Alan asks awkwardly, changing the subject. “I thought you didn’t like flowers and traditions.”

There’s a small, rather humble looking vase of flowers on Eric’s desk. The stems are clipped short, and they don’t look like the ostentatious bouquets floating around the rest of the Dispatch.

“Those are nice,” Alan continues idly, feeling the need to keep talking, just to prevent the awkward silence he can feel slowly descending. “You know, they don’t always die, like you said. Well, they do, but you can dry them. You can hang them upside down...” Alan is babbling, staring with great concentration at the flowers, “...and dry them, and then, they’ll stay lovely for a long time. They even still smell. And. They mean true love, yes, but sometimes flowers are nice and they don’t have to mean anything except that they’re nice and Valentine’s Day is a silly holiday and traditions aren’t for everyone and—”

“They’re for you.”

Alan’s mouth snaps shut and now he turns to stare at Eric, everything else forgotten.

“What?”

“Well,” Eric says, defensively, crossing his arms over his chest, “it’s just that... it’s a good excuse to have flowers. You like flowers. You could have them on your desk. And it wouldn’t be odd. And...”

“You think I’m odd?” Alan can’t keep the hurt out of his voice.

“Of course not,” Eric retorts immediately, frowning. “You like bloody flowers, so I got you bloody flowers. And those stockings suit you. Yes. There. I said it.” 

“Well, it’s not as if I’ll say that bloody _bondage_ harness doesn’t suit you, too!” Alan shoots back. “There, _I_ said it.”

They stare each other down, and Alan’s already halfway to Eric’s chair when Eric pulls him forward. He doesn’t need any convincing as he straddles Eric’s lap, his knees tucked around Eric’s hips in the chair.

Their mouths meet messily, not quite lined up the right way, and Eric’s hands are smoothing up under the sheer camisole to stroke Alan’s back.

Alan immediately pushes his fingers into Eric’s hair—he’s been aching to do it for _far_ too long—and grips, suddenly feeling a surge of confidence.

_Eric got him roses._

He leans forward to kiss Eric properly, letting a small, sated moan well in his throat, and he feels Eric unclipping the garters to slide down over the curve of his ass to his thighs, then just rest there.

They pull apart, breathing hard, and Alan looks at Eric hesitantly. “I know what the flowers mean,” he says simply. “I...”

Alan kisses him again.

“This is Grell’s fault,” he says as they come up for air, even though they don’t need to.

“I must have done something to earn Grell’s favor, then,” Eric quips, smiling a little as Alan pushes a curious fingertip against the leather harness.

“It suits,” he remarks, paying Eric back the compliment, laughing a little. He takes the liberty and pushing his face against Eric’s shoulder to kiss at his neck, and feels the vibration of Eric laughing, too. He feels the blush begin to rise again, but finally works up the courage to say, “...There’s also a crop that I left in my desk.”

Eric seems to think this is a good idea, and Alan will be forever grateful that Eric’s office door locks.

The next day, Alan sets the small vase of flowers on his desk, and Grell smirks for a week straight.


End file.
